Blood, Bond and Scales
by RosylaGypsy
Summary: [AU] PreEragon, No slash: Young Eragon is on his first hunting trip. However, he gets a lot more than he bargained for when he finds a black haired boy lying injured in the woods.
1. Prologue: Part 1

**Yes, it's Rosyla Gypsy again, writing in yet _another_ completely randomn fandom. Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, Beauty and the Beast . . . I swear, it's not my fault, my Muse just happens to be notoriously incapable of sticking to commitments. (sigh)**

**Anyway, as soon as I read Eragon and its sequal, said Muse started berating me so painfully that I had no choice but to take to the precious laptop (my one, my own, my preciousss . . . ahem) I was particularly disappointed with the way the killed off my fave character in the first chapter of Eldest, then brought him back in the last chapter, wherapon he has now turned evil. Gahh! (Whew, glad to get that off my chest . . ;)**

**I sincerely hope you like this story - for the record, I plan on sticking with it!**

**Disclaimer: If I owned all the fandoms I've written in over the years, I'd be a squillion-billionaire and buy Alagaësia.**

**1. Discovery**

It was a cool night. Eragon shivered and fought to keep his mind off the way the chilly breeze bit into every exposed piece of flesh that his thick but worn clothes did not cover. This was a hunt and he hadn't spent the last two days wandering the Spine just to return home. His family was counting on whatever he could bring back.

The deer was just ahead of him, obliviously grazing on a patch of grass. It was quite young, and Eragon had thanked his lucky stars when it had broken off from its herd, presenting him with the perfect opportunity. It had taken a lot of pleading to convince Garrow to let him finally go on a hunting trip alone.

Silently, without taking his eyes off the target, the boy notched an arrow into the bow Garrow had made him for his last birthday. Traditionally, a boy was considered old enough to be deemed a capable hunter when he was fourteen, but Eragon was quite talented for his age, with a sharp eye and steady arm. Of course, it helped that he idolized his cousin Roran, who was nearly sixteen and one of Carvahall's best huntsmen.

He drew back the arrow and aimed it at the deer with careful precision, his mind whirling with excitement at being able to finally prove himself in the eyes of his uncle and cousin. Just one more second. One more . . .

A muffled scream of agony suddenly cut through the air, startling Eragon into releasing the arrow several feet away from his target. The deer was likewise spooked and bounded away in fright. Barely noticing that his potential winter meat supply was now out of his grasp, Eragon whirled around, his eyes wide as they scanned the dark area. The scream had sounded very close, and had belonged to a human. A human male, he was sure.

For a few seconds, he waited breathlesly, hardly daring to move. If someone had screamed, then they'd had to have reason to scream; if there was something dangerous in the woods then maybe he should make a run for it.

The scream came again, and this time he was sure it was to the left somewhere. Eragon bit his lip in a moment of indecision. He had been told all sorts of stories about strange happenings in the Spine, and he knew that the majority of the village - with the possible exception of Roran - would do the smart thing and head off home. However, Eragon was empathetic by nature, and couldn't stand seeing another person in trouble.

Making up his mind, he timidly walked in the direction of the unknown sufferer. Eragon had never been scared of the forest at night - he rather found the silence peaceful in comparison to his busy life at home - but tonight the trees seemed dark and forbidding as they loomed up in front of him as he made his way foward. His vivid imagination started to conjure up all sorts of terrors that he imagined lurking in the dark, just waiting to jump out at him.

His pulse was racing and he forced himself to calm down. It was pointless getting all worked up over nothing. He was always getting scolded by different people for his "mindless fantasies" and was now beginning to see their point . . .

Eragon's heart jumped into his thoat as something big and soft suddenly appeared before his feet. With a yelp, he toppled over and met the hard ground with a dull thud. After a brief moment in which he just lay there, trying to compose himself, he jumped as the road block suddenly shifted at his feet. Scrambling to his hands and knees, Eragon crawled cautiously over to the apparant cause for the screaming.

Because of the limited light that the moon provided, it was impossible for him to tell what the person's injuries were, but from the way they were curled up into a tight ball and letting out raspy, irregular breaths, they were obviously very hurt. After a quick, nervous glance around to reassure himself that there were no immediate threats nearby, Eragon slowly reached out a hand and placed it on the person's trembling shoulder, giving it a little shake.

In response the figure curled up tighter, as though trying to present as small a target as possible for an unknown attacker. Frowning, Eragon tried again, and whispered, "Hey, it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

The person suddenly froze, and the boy took it as a sign that they were listening. "Look, you're obviously hurt, but I can't tell how much - if you let me, I can take you back to my camp, it's not far," he continued, trying to sound much calmer and more confident than he felt.

There was a long stretch of silence in which Eragon began to consider whether or not his discovery was still conscious, when they finally raised their head slowly to face him.

Eragon saw that the person was indeed male, with a thin, pallid face that looked deathly pale even in the dark. It was framed by a mass of black hair that reached his neck, and there was a small but steady trickle of blood that running down from his nose. He was still young, perhaps a couple of years older than himself, but Eragon could tell that he wasn't from the close-knit village of Carvahall. Perhaps Therinsford?

"Who - who are you?" The boy finally whispered, his voice sounding hoarse and raspy. He emphasized the "you" in his sentence, as though having expected to find someone other than Eragon crouched over him.

Swallowing down the thousands of questions that threatened to burst from his mouth, Eragon answered, "I'm Eragon, of Carvahall. I was just hunting when I heard you scream, so I decided to . . ."

"Where am I?" The boy's next question was so unexpected that it shocked him temporarily into silence. How could he not know where he was?

"Uh, you're in the Spine." The boy looked at him blankly. "You know, trecherous mountain range, near the Palancar Valley?" he elaborated, his bewilderment mounting as his companion continued to look utterly unenlightened. Eragon sighed and finally said, "Well, if you're not from the Valley, where are you from? And how did you get those injuries?"

The boy blinked, looking thrown by the question. After a brief interlude of silence, he finally said, "I - I don't know."

"What? How can you not know?"

He shrugged, then winced as the movement seemed to cause him pain. "I don't - I can't remember."

Eragon blew out a frustrated whoosh of air, feeling completely off-balance with the whole situation. He then looked at the boy's head thoughtfully, noticing how part of his hair was all wet and matted. "Maybe you got a concussion and that's why you can't remember. My uncle said that can sometimes happen, if you're hit on the head hard enough."

The boy didn't say anything, and Eragon thought for a moment. The situation mystified and even scared him a little. Part of him wished that this responsibility hadn't been thrust at him - how was he supposed to get this stranger, who had just appeared out of nowhere, back home if here didn't even know where his home was? Ignoring him was out of the question, and his injuries were extensive enough that, by the time Eragon had run home, convinced someone to help him, and returned to this place with said assistance, he would surely be dead.

Finally coming to a decision, he voiced the only solution he could think of. "Look, um . . . why don't I take you back to my camp and treat some of your injuries - I packed some medical supplies, just in case - then we'll go back to my village, which isn't far, and help you return to wherever it is you come from. What do you say?" He tried to keep his voice light and positive, as though what he was proposing would be a breeze to accomplish.

For a tense moment of silence, Eragon could do more than wait for the boy's answer, though he really didn't see any other way out. It was either he accepted the offer or lie here and bleed to death - unless a bear or wolf found him first.

After what seemed a long time, he finally gave a wry smile that looked more like a grimace of pain, and said, "Very well, Eragon of Carvahall. I don't really have a choice, do I?"

Eragon smiled sympathetically. "I guess not." He sighed a little, mentally preparing himself for what he was about to undertake, then a thought occured to him. "Do you remember your name? Or if you don't, can you at least make up one so I have something to adress you as?"

The boy hesitated.

"Murtagh. My name's Murtagh."

It had taken about twenty minutes to get Murtagh back to Eragon's camp, whereas had he been alone, it would have taken less than two. After it became apparant that his discovery couldn't move without some heavy assistance, Eragon had called up all the strength his thirteen-year-old body could muster and half carried, half dragged Murtagh to their destination. Surprisingly, the older boy was quite thin, almost dangerously so, and not as heavy as Eragon had predicted.

Nevertheless, by the time he had clumsily set up his bed roll, helped Murtagh down onto it, and spent several painstaking minutes striving to get a fire going, he was beginning to wonder how on earth he was to get them both back to the village before tomorrow evening. He had been given three days maximum to return, and knew that his family would drag the whole village into the Spine in search of him he he exceeded that limit by so much as a minute.

There was only one thing he wanted at that moment, and it was to lie down and sleep what was left of the night away. However, Murtagh's injuries still needed to be treated lest he was to die of them within the hour, so Eragon took a brief moment to compose himself before reluctantly getting up to rumaging through his pack. He resurfaced with a worn drinking flask, bandages, needle and thread, and a little bottle of liquid made by the village healer, Gertrude, for cuts and scratches.

From the second he had lain down, his sharp green gaze hadn't left Eragon for a second, and quite frankly, it was making him feel nervous. Biting back an annoyed comment, he walked over on his knees and settled himself beside the bedroll. By the light of the fire, Eragon could see that the many cuts that Murtagh had somehow aquired weren't particularly deep or fatal, but he had lost a lot of blood. On closer inspection, parts of his clothes were ravaged and torn, particularly on his back, where an angry collection of welts covered his skin.

"Do you have any idea who did this, or how?" Eragon asked, staring at his back. It looked like someone had taken a whip to him.

Murtagh shook his head and Eragon's uneasiness gave way to anger. How could anyone torture another human being like this? It was pure evil!

Eragon then spent the next hour and a half performing the most uncomfortable healing proccess he had ever imagined. Although Garrow had shown him all the basics and more, and had refused to let him out of the house without a substantial first-aid kit, the boy had bever imagined having to actually use his skills.

He was nervous enough about making a mistake and causing everything to become worse, but it was all the more difficult with Murtagh flinching whenever his hand came anywhere near him. Eragon knew it was more a reflex than his actually being scared, but it was still annoying. It had taken a lot of patience to persuade the older boy to remove his shirt so that he could treat the long red gashes.

When Eragon had come to a particularly nasty cut that had needed to be sewn up, his confidence had quailed. His healing skills were mediocre at best and the idea of threading a needle repeatedly through someone's bloody skin made him feel undeniably queasy.

However, as he hesitated, his clear blue eyes suddenly met Murtagh's pain-clouded green ones. There was something else in those eyes, barely visible beneath the guarded wariness that he seemed to put up on reflex. Eragon realised that it was fear. Fear of what had happened, fear of being subjected to more pain, and fear of the strange boy who held his life in his hands.

The look gave Eragon a strange feeling of resolution. He realised that he wanted to heal this boy; he wanted to prove the fear unfounded. He had never been responsible for someone else's life before - with Roran and Garrow's occasional overprotectiveness always at his back, he'd barely been responsible for his own. But right now, with no one but himself to help this stranger, it gave him a sense of importance and responsibility that he decided he liked. He wanted to be someone this boy could trust.

So, after letting out a bracing sigh, he got to work. Thankfully, Murtagh seemed surprisingly unpertubed by the sharp needle, and Eragon was immersed completely in the task, tongue sticking out one corner of his mouth in concentration, so the task wasn't as uncomfortable as could be predicted.

After that parcticular hurdle was crossed, the rest of the healing process seemed to be downhill. Once they were done, Murtagh looked better, and Eragon inwardly allowed himself a pat on the back. He would not be returning home with a prize kill slung over his back as a tribute to his spectacular hunting skills, but he knew that Garrow would be pleased that his lessons in first-aid had not gone to waste. Of course, Gertrude would probably re-do everything when they got home (he still wasn't sure exactly _how_ they were going to accomplish that), but he was sure the stitches and bandages would hold until then.

After what seemed an eternity, Eragon sighed and sat back on his heels, stretching. "How do you feel?" he asked Murtagh, anxious that his charge would feel as good about the work as he did.

The older boy gave himself a brief once over, examining his patched up wounds. After a few tense moments, he finally said. "Better. How old are you?" He looked up at Eragon as though seeing him for the first time.

"Thirteen," he replied, hoping he didn't look too pleased with himself.

Murtagh's eyes now showed what he was sure was a glimmer of admiration, as well as something else he couldn't interpret. "Really? Not a bad job."

Eragon blushed slightly and moved to the other side of the fire. "We should probably get some sleep. You look like you could use a lot of rest."

His companion nodded, then realised that he was occupying the only bedroll. "What will you sleep on?"

The younger boy looked up, surprised. "The ground. It's fine, I've done it plenty of times before."

Not seeming to have the energy to argue, Murtagh simply shrugged and settled down. "Good night." Eragon said cheerfully, stifling a yawn.

"Yeah, same to you," the other youth replied, then seemed to hesitate. "And thanks . . . Eragon."

The thirteen-year-old closed his eyes, smiling slightly into the fire.


	2. Prologue: Part 2

**13 REVIEWS!!!! (Keels over in a dead faint. Desert Thief pours bucket of water over her head then gets chased away by a hourde of dragons) Ahem. I was so stoked by the amount of reviews I got for one chapter; for me, that's a golden record! Thankyou to everyone who contributed to my ecstasy and, of couse, my story.**

**A few quick notes about _Blood, Blond and Scales_ that you might want to glance at:**

**1.) I am exceedingly sorry about the mistake in appearances - thankyou DragonRider2000 for pointing that out. However, I saw the movie before I read the book and the actors' appearances are now forever cemented in my mind as how the characters look like. For my own preferences, I will keep them like that, sorry if this annoys anyone.**

**2.) All mysteries surrounding the plot (and there are plenty of them :) will be explained in due time, so I won't be giving the answers away to people who ask. You'll just have to wait and see like everyone else :D. I can say though, that no matter how sappy this may get (I promise I'll try and prevent it from being so) this will remain a NO SLASH. Comprends? Merci.**

**4.) Anyone looking for a big, romantic, EragonxArya epic . . . please look elsewhere. Sorry to any Arya fans out there, but I just happen to strongly dislike the elf and think that Eragon could do a lot better. Any romances that crop up won't do so until much later in the story, but I can promise you that, if an OC does end up taking Arya's place somewhere down the track, she WON'T be a Rider, she WON'T be insanely beautiful, and she WON'T have a tragic past . . . in other words, she will MOST DEFINITELY_ NOT_ BE A MARY-SUE. Glad we're clear on that.**

**Ok, I'll leave you alone now. Enjoy the chapter and, once again, thankyou for your support! Happy New Year, one and all!!!!!!**

**Disclaimer: I've put Alagaësia on laybuy . . . but unless Chris Paolini decides to give me the rights to _Inheritance_, it will be sometime after Eragon dies that I will finally produce the money to earn it. And that would defeat the whole purpose:(**

**2. Expect the Unexpected**

Eragon had thought that, what with all the activity of the previous night, he'd be spending the next day drifting away in the land of dreams. However, no such thing happened as his eyes slowly opened to behold the morning light seeping painstakingly through the overhanging forest branches. It seemed that thirteen years of getting up at dawn every morning to tend to the farm weren't going to change just because a strange boy appeared out of nowhere.

Stifling a wide yawn, Eragon pushed himself up to his elbows and glanced over at the person in question. Unlike his companion, Murtagh may as well have been a wooden log for all the signs of conciousness he was displaying. The younger boy was surprised by how serene he seemed - as though he hadn't been on the brink of bleeding to death just a few hours previous. He was lying on his side facing the remnants of the fire, breathing deeply in slumber.

Eragon's forehead creased in confusion. Now that the urgency was over, he was able to appreciate just how bizarre the situation was. How could Murtagh, a young man clearly not much older than himself, end up in the middle of the Spine in a deadly condition with little more than tattered remnants of clothing and a name? It just didn't make sense.

And that wasn't all; when Eragon had been applying some of Gertrude's ointment onto a nasty gash on his left palm, he had noticed that unlike his own hands, which were rough and blistered from many days of toiling away in the field, Murtagh's were quite soft and unmarked in comparison. It was as though he hadn't done a hard day's labour in his life, but that didn't make a scrap of sense either. The only nearby population centres were farming villages and it was near impossible for a villager his age to live in a pampered coccoon in which one did not have to work. Perhaps he had some sort of condition or illness that prevented him from doing so?

He was still pondering the situation as he rumaged through his small travelling pack, looking for something that could be used as a potential two-person breakfast. After resurfacing with a hunk of half-eaten bread, some cold meat and a single wizened apple, he grimaced slightly and glanced over at Murtagh's drastically thin, bandage-swathed body. It only took a brief moment of mental debate before he grabbed his trusty bow and quiver and stood up.

Eragon was hestitant about leaving his companion alone for too long, so decided not to wander to far. Thanfully, it only took ten minutes and a little practiced stealth before he was returning back to the camp with two plump rabbits in hand. Murtagh still happened to be asleep, so the younger boy took the time to restart the fire and rapidly skin the rabbits, wondering if his charge was ever going to wake up.

What if he came from somewhere beyond the Palancar Valley? Maybe he lived in a rich family from far away and didn't have to work to earn his keep. But then why the injuries? And why was he so thin? Eragon couldn't see how someone could excuse their brethren from labor, then nearly beat and starve him to death. And how did they get him all the way out here?

Eragon's vivid imagination then came into play, conjuring up a story that even he knew wasn't practical, but at least was a way to pass the time. Perhaps bandits captured Murtagh and brought him to the Spine, tortured him, then abandoned him. Yes, that would be plausible - except that the bandits would have had to have left a clear trail after departing and Eragon was convinced that the area around Murtagh had been untouched. It was like he'd simply appeared out of thin air.

The boy was just contemplating how to try and press for more information when he got the chance without being insensitive to the situation when a soft groan made him look up quickly. The crackling of the fire had apparantly lured Murtagh back into consciousness, much to Eragon's relief.

"Morning," The younger boy said brightly, watching as his companion blinked around tiredly at his surroundings.

"What time is it?"

Eragon sighed mentally. Aparrantly, his discovery was not one for exchanging pleasantries - of course, with what he had been through, he couldn't exactly blame him. "About ten-ish, I think. How are you feeling?"

Murtagh pushed himself slowly up to his elbows before answering. "Cramped, sore, bruised and my head is pounding like crazy - but alive. That's the main thing."

Eragon grinned, glad to see what might have been the hint of wry humour in his tone. He had been getting worried that his charge was incapable of feeling any emotions that didn't relate to pain or fear. "Should I add hungry to your list of problems?" he asked, gesturing to the rabbits, which were just about ready to be served.

Considering how gaunt Murtagh was, Eragon was surprised he hadn't already lunged for the food. He was even more surprised when he didn't do so now, instead eyeing the rabbits as though expecting to jump out of the flames and try to eat _him_. Eragon's mind suddenly flickered back to his vague theory about how his discovery might be from a higher class, and not consider such a meagre product as substantial food.

"I know it's not much," he said quickly. "But it might be a while until we get home and you can have something better there."

"No it's okay," Murtagh intervened. "It's just that, uh, I'm not really . . ." He looked into the younger boy's anxious face and his words trailed off into nothingness. "Actually, it's fine. I am kind of hungry."

He still didn't look all that enthusiastic, but Eragon, relieved to hear his aquiensce decided not to push it.

They ate breakfast in silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Eragon's mind was still occupied with conspiracy theories about Murtagh's appearance, but he still managed to notice that, despite his companion's previous reluctance to touch the food, he seemed to be enjoying it well enough.

"So - do you have any idea on how we're going back to wherever it is you come from?" Murtagh finlly asked, startling Eragon out of his daydreams. Once his mind digested the question, he couldn't help but wince slightly. "Um . . . not exactly, but I'm working on it."

It looked like Murtagh was trying very hard to keep from rolling his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but a sudden disturbance in the bushes nearby made both boys' heads snap up.

"What was that?" he said cautiously, sharp eyes flicking back and forth around their surroundings.

"It was probably just a bird or something," Eragon replied, though his hunter instincts told him otherwise. He reached for his bow and stood up slowly, all senses alert for anything out of the ordinary.

"Morning boys," a low voice growled, cutting through the silence.

Eragon whirled around, desperately trying to locate where it had come from. This _really _wasn't the best time to be faced with an unknown enemy. Murtagh, clearly frustrated with his lack of use in the situation, grabbed a large stick lying nearby and held it aloft.

Notching an arrow into his bow, Eragon pointed it in the general direction of where he thought the voice had come from. "Who are you? Show yourself!" he commanded, trying to keep his voice steady.

There was a brief, tense moment in which the whole forest seemed to hold its breath, then something stirred in the deep foliage that surrounded them. Then, a dark shape emmerged slowly into their clearing. Eragon thought it was a shadow, until it moved into a small patch of sunlight and proved to be a human figure, wearing a dark cloak that covered its whole body.

Eragon was considering whether or not to release a warning arrow when the figure threw its hood back, revealing a man's rugged face, short-cut black beard and glinting dark eyes. The boy blinked in surprise. "Vralkin?"

The man smirked slightly and gave a small bow. "At your service."

Eragon lowered the arrow slightly but didn't take his eyes off Vralkin. "What are you doing here?"  
"Same thing as you, I presume," he replied, flicking back one side of his cloak to reveal a bow held in his hand. "But I must say," He glanced at Murtagh. "My people skills are not nearly as good as yours while hunting, young Eragon. Tell me, who is your friend?"

Eragon wanted dearly to retort that Vralkin's people skills weren't much good anywhere else, but decided that it wouldn't be the wisest comment. He also thought that telling this man, who seemed to make it his business to be the most suspicious person in Carvahall, about his discovery wouldn't be wise either. But he didn't really have a lot of choice in the matter; Vralkin had already seen Murtagh and they were in dire need of assistance at the moment.

He glanced back at the older boy in question. To his surprise, Murtagh seemed not to care either way about the matter, and was instead keeping his gaze fixated on Vralkin's, an unreadable expression in his eyes. His gaze flickered to Eragon for a brief second, and he gave a small jerk of the head that looked like a cross between a shrug and a nod. Satisfied, the young villager turned back to Vralkin.

"This is Murtagh. I . . . found him in the woods last night," he said, then braced himself for the barrage of questions that were bound to be thrown at him.

They never came. Instead, there was a moment or two of silence in which Vralkin regarded him with his unnerving dark eyes, as though trying to see right through him. Eragon was on the verge of squirming with discomfort when he finally spoke. "I see - well, it is an honour to make your aquaintance, Murtagh." He gave another bow, a gesture which was unreturned, before turning back to Eragon. "He looks to be in a bad way. How do you plan on getting back to Carvahall, exactly?"

Eragon gave a little enbarrased cough. "Well, uh, I was kind of thinking that . . . maybe we could . . ."

"You weren't planning to drag him back, were you?"

"No . . ."

Vralkin smirked again and gave a piercing whistle. The next moment another figure materialised into their clearing, although it was a lot less intimidating than its preccedor. The pony was small, shaggy, and covered with dirt and leaves that clearly came from a few long days of wandering the forest - but at that moment, it was the most wonderful thing that Eragon could have laid eyes on.

"I don't usually allow others to ride Sisco - he has a slight unsocial complex, you see. But I think that we both might make an exception in this case," Vralkin said conversationably. He then whispered a few inaudible words in the pony's ear and it walked over to stand by Eragon, looking much more intelligent than any animal he had ever seen. "It sure is lucky you found us," he said, looking up at the man.

Vralkin smiled. "Yes, luck . . . or maybe something more." With those final words he turned and disappeared into their surroundings as quickly as he had come.

Bewildered, Eragon called after him. "Wait! How will you get home?" There was no answer. Scratching his head, he turned back to Murtagh. "Well, that was . . . strange."

"I didn't like I him," the older boy said bluntly. Eragon smiled.

"He's not the type of person who likes to be liked, I think. Vralkin's kind of like a shadow in our village - always flitting about the edges, never really talking to anyone. Funny that he should show up just when we need assistance."

"Suspicious, more like. It's just too much of a coincidence to be true."

Eragon frowned slightly. He too thought it was strange, but decided that if fortune decided to hand itself out on a silver platter for them, it wouldn't do to refuse it. It was the Spine after all, and he was beginning to get used to unexpected things happening at the strangest of times.

"Come on. My uncle's going to kill me for being so late."

**Thanks goes to Desert Thief for helping me post this, and probably many future, chapters. Without her help, I wouldn't be able to update. Merci, mon ami!**


	3. Prologue: Part 3

**Hey guys, I'm really sorry about this being so late. My computor decided to go and crash on me, and at the moment I can't post chapters from it. Until it is fixed, I will need the much appreciated assistance of Desert Thief, and updates may be rather slow in the future. Once again, thank you for all the reviews!  
This chapter is a bit rushed and quite strange, but rest assured, everything will be explained in the near future. Just bear with me for thet ime being, k?**

**Disclaimer: Must we go through this again? I OWN Alagaesia! It's mine, mine, MINE!!! (Chris Paolini advances with Za'roc and an army of dragons) Uh, just kidding, heh, heh. I don't own it :'(**

**3. Fear and Fortune**

By midday, the crystalline blue sky had started to cloud over forbiddingly, causing Eragon's heart to sink as he glanced up at it. Both he and his uncle had been sure that his hunting trip wouldn't be disturbed by bad weather and the last thing he needed right now was for the elements to be unpredictable.

_A hunter has to be prepared for anything._ Among Roran's many tutorial's that he had received over the years, that phrase had been the most often repeated. You couldn't expect the world to just cease all movement at your feet to make the way easier - you had to be flexible and deal with it.

Sighing, he looked back at Murtagh, who was draped across Sisco's bare back, feeling that the past twenty four hours had presented that lesson to him like never before. He knew the older boy was concious, but barely heard him utter a word since setting out. Earlier on, Eragon had made a few feeble stabs at conversation, but soon gave up after realising that any reply he may get would be monosyllabic.

In any case, he soon found that conversation would have been pretty much impossible by the time they were still about an hour away from their Carvahall. As he had discovered, it was one thing to travel through the Spine's rough terrain on one's own, carrying just a small pack and hunting weapons, but it was quite another to make the journey with a passenger-burdened pony in tow. He felt a stab of irritation. Vralkin might have given them a means of transport, but he could have at least stayed a while to help them home.

_Miserable, sneaky old man_, Eragon thought to himself bitterly.

True, Sisco was pretty much foolproof when it came to things that usually drove most of his species crazy - wind, water, rustling trees, snakes, etc. However, he was also remarkably stubbourn, and if it came time to cross some sort of barrier that did not appeal to him suddenly appeared, he would refuse point blank to cross it. Or if Eragon was forced to navigate them both through a particularly narrow path, he would dig his hooves in and no amount of pulling and tugging would make him budge.

After several of these incidents, the young man had finally had enough and and threw down Sisco's reins with a cry of frustration. Folding his arm, Eragon glared into the pony's, as though hoping to incinerate him with the force of his gaze.

Alerted by the shout, Murtagh looked up. "What's the matter?" He looked both alarmed and amused by the expression on Eragon's face.

"Life is against me!" he cried, feeling both ridiculous and too tired to care.

Murtagh raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to say something when a distant rumble of thunder cut across. The next second, a cold drizzle of rain started to fall from the gloomy sky.

"Oh, that's just what we need. Thankyou very much!" Eragon shouted to the heavens, feeling decidedly miserable. First his hunting trip had turned into a search and rescue mission that involved a boy who clearly did not like being rescued, he had gotten about two hours sleep the previous night, he'd had to deal with disturbing village recluses and insufferable stubborn equines, and now this. There was only so much a thirteen-year-old boy could handle.

Murtagh gave a small smirk. "I take it you haven't worked with horses much before."

Eragon gave a small sigh. "Is it that obvious?"

"Just a bit." His companion then watched with slight scepticism, then shock, as he bent down and whispered something in Sisco's ear, then gave him a small nudge with his knee. The pony immediately moved foward over a large log that he had flat out refused to cross before, and kept walking.

It took Eragon a few awestruck moments to close his mouth, then clumsily vault over the log in pursuit of horse and rider.

"Hey, how did you do that?" he asked, hurrying to keep up with them. For such a small pony, Sisco sure covered ground quickly. Grabbing the reins to keep him on the right trail, Eragon looked up at his companion. "How did you get him to go over it?"

Murtagh looked like he was trying very hard to keep a straight face. "You have to learn how to communicate with them."

"And you know how to do that?" he demanded.

The boy just shrugged. "A little."

"Huh. More than a little, to be able to get that thing to do something." Murtagh gave a small half-smile but didn't reply. They walked along in silence for a moment, then an idea occured to Eragon. "Hey, but if you remember that, what's to say you can't remembr other stuff?"

Murtagh hesitated before answering. "I remember - fragments. Like a big picture split into tiny pieces that don't fit anywhere. Get it?"

"I think so," the smaller companion said slowly. "So, you can't recall who . . ."

"No."

"Oh." Eragon, seeing that Murtagh was closing up again, decided to let the subject drop for the time being. Glancing at Sisco, who was still plodding on resolutely, he said, "So, do you think you could make him walk on his hind legs? Roran once said that Vralkin made him do that in front of him."

He astually laughed a little at that, the first time Eragon had heard him do so. "I don't think so."

"Sing?"

"Na-ah."

"Fly?"

"Do you see any wings?"

"No . . . could you make him rear?"

Murtagh seemed to consider for a moment before saying, "Now that, maybe I could-"

Without warning, Sisco's eyes suddenly went wild, and he let out a shrill whinny. The pony, who hadn't so much as moud a sound of protest since setting out, then started straining against the reins, front legs fighting to lift off the ground in panic.

"Hey, I wasn't serious! I didn't mean for you to actually make him rear!" Eragon shouted over the pony's terrifed noises and the ever-increasing rain, struggling to restrain him.

"I'm not doing anything," Murtagh replied through tightly gritted teeth, his hands white as they held onto the reins tightly.

Eragon spent the next few chaotic minutes torn between panic and confusion, preoccupied with both trying to control a pony that didn't in the least want to be controlled, and looking around wildly for the source of disruption. Had he perhaps seen a snake? Or something worse?

He was starting to contemplate the merits of dragging Murtagh off the horse's back before he bolted, when Sisco suddenly stilled. Starled into silence, both boys followed suit, panting heavily.

"What just happened?" Murtagh said slowly, looking shaken.

"I have no idea," Eragon replied, letting one hand drop limply to his side. He stared at Sisco, wondering if what Vralkin said about the pony making an exception in terms of being unsociable was true. He decided that he did not want to see him in an unaccomodating mood. Damn equines, damn Vralkin, and damn the Spine for being just so damn unpredictable!

Suddenly, he stiffened. A chill that had nothing to do with the pouring rain passed over him, seeping, or so it felt, into his bones. Eragon shivered and glanced around wildly, overcome with a sense of fear - of wrongness. What was wrong with him? Glancing sideways at Sisco, he found that the pony was unnaturally still, like a statue. Atop his back, Murtagh was the same, his pale face whiter than ever.  
"Do you feel that?" Eragon asked, his voice sounding hoarse and strange.

At first, his companion didn't seem to hear him, his eyes apparrantly fixated on some invisible object in the distance. After a moment of tense silence, they flickered to Eragon's. "Yeah," he croaked, looking as sick as the younger boy felt.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the chill went away. Eragon breathed an audible sigh of relief, feeling as though a heavy dark shadow that had been hovering over him had passed, leaving the sky clear. Not that it was - the rain was till pourng down thick and fast from a sea of grey.

He looked up at Murtagh and gave a small shrug, trying to smile. "Well, whatever it was, it's gone no-"

Before he could get any further, Sisco gave another shrill scream and started to fight again. Not bothering to waste time wondering what had set him off this time, Eragon had just enough time to grab at the reins before he took off, and was nearly pulled off his feet. The pony evidently had a lot more strength than it looked, and was using every ounce of it to break free of the boy's feeble hold.

Eragon could tell that he would lose his grip at any second, and did the first thing that came to him. Acting purely impulse, he grabbed a handful of Sisco's mane and swung himself onto his back, in front of Murtagh, just as the pony took off blindly into the trees.

Teeth gritted in determination, Eragon fought to get a grip on the reins and hold on for dear life as the dense greenery rushed past in an indecipherable blur. He was dimly aware of Murtagh uttering a low curse and grabbing on to the back of Eragon's grubby tunic to keep from suffering a painful fall to the ground.

"I thought you weren't experienced with horses!"

"I'm not!" Eragon yelled back, his voice fighting to be heard over the howling wind and rain. Sisco was beyond controlling, intent only on getting as far away as possible in the shortest amount of time possible. It was all his passengers could do to hold tight and pray that he didn't attempt to jump any . . .

"Log!" Eragon shouted in warning, his heart sinking at the sight of the large fallen tree that was rapidly coming towards them.

"What?"

"I said, there's a -" Too late. The next moment, after a jerky lift that nearly unseated them, all three boys were in the air and sailing over the roadblock, Sisco's short legs having no trouble clearing it. They landed heavily on the other side and had barely enough time to gather themselves before the pony was off again.

Eragon didn't know how long they ran for - him mind was focused solely on not falling off. The pony seemed utterly undeterred by the slopy and uneven terrain over which he practically flew.

After what seemed like an eternity, he dimly felt the ground beneath them start to even up. He couldn't quite see properly because of the harsh wind blowing into his eyes, making them run like rivers, but it seemed as though the rain felt suddenly heavier. Wiping his eyes hurriedly on the shoulder of his equally soggy tunic, Eragon blinked and realised that they were at the edge of the Spine. As the trees started to thin out, beholding the open field ahead, he felt a wave of exhaustion mingled with relief overtake him. He didn't care where they were - he was just glad to be out of the forest.

Almost as soon as they had broken free of the overbearing trees, Sisco started to slow down. Eragon didn't know why, and at that moment, didn't particularly care. As soon as the pony had slowed to a stop, panting heavily, sweat streaming down his sides, Eragon used what little was left of his strangth and stumbled ungracefully off his back and onto the wet grass.

Resisting the urge to kiss the ground, Eragon leaned one hand against Sisco's shoulder to steady himself, only now realising that hisw legs felt like they were on fire. He doubted that, by tomorrow, he'd barely be able to walk at all.

"Well, that was - fun," Murtagh said after a period of silence, his voice nearly an octave higher than usual. Looking up at him, Eragon found that his companion's face was very white, and he looked on the verge of collapsing. The younger boy raised a weary eyebrow. It seemed that Murtagh had to be half-dead for any sense of humour to make an appearance.

"Yeah. Fun." He glanced at back at the mountains that loomed up behind them. He thought of the chill terror that had swept over the three of them and shuddered. Eragon had to quite honestly say that it was the worst he'd felt in his life - not least because it hadn't seemed to stem from anywehere, which made it all the more disturbing.

Too tired to think any more about it, he looked around. The surrounding grassland and trees looked vaguely familiar, but it wasn't anywhere near where he'd entered the Spine two days ago (had it really only been two days? It felt like a lifetime) He couldn't tell what time of the day it was due to the sun's disappearance in deference to the endless rain, and for the same reason, couldn't navigate himself home.

_Maybe I should just fall to the ground, unconciouss, then when I wake up all my problems will be gone,_ he thought to himself hazily. _Or, better yet, all this will turn out to be a bad dream . . ._

A distant shout suddenly made his head snap up. Squinting through the rain, Eragon could just make out three figures coming towards them. A jolt of hope stirred in his chest. He neither knew nor cared who these newcomers were; all his mind could comprehend was that people - _adult_ people - were here, and he could finally hand all the responsibility that he had been dumped with over to people who were hopefully more capable of handling it. The past few days had been the strangest that he'd ever lived through, and while he liked an adventure as much as the next young farm boy, Eragon would be more than happy to lie down and forget about it all.

"Uh, Eragon?"

The boy looked up at Murtagh and groaned. Somewhere along the way, the stitches that had been holding together a wound on his side had been ripped open, and blood was once again seeping into his clothing.

Grabbing Sisco's reins, Eragon began trudging gratefully towards the approaching figures. As the faces of Roran, Horst and Garrow came into view, he knew one thing was certain: if he ever got on an equine of any shape or size ever again, it would be too soon.


	4. Prologue: Part 4

**I'm not even going to bother apologizing for the lateness of this chapter. Blame it on Desert Thief – she has gone and abandoned me to go traveling halfway around the world and without her constant nagging to get things done, I am completely useless (DT comes flying back to Oz with murder in her eyes) Ok, ok, I have no one to blame but myself I know. However, as you might have noticed, I have made a few alterations to my chapter titles, which means I finally have some hard-set direction with this story. So no more insanely late updates, ok?**

**This chapter is rather short and strange, but I promise it will all come together in the end. Trust me. It is dedicated to Ookami Calvin and missycatrulz, newcomers to (Harry Potter Fans should check out missy's new story – she updates faster than me ******

**Late Easter Eggs go out to all my reviewers!**

**Disclaimer: I own Gobanob and a few nameless sailors. You can't sue me for that (although Thorn might sue me for stealing Murtagh . . . I'd better get a good lawyer . . .)**

**Prologue Part 4**

It was raining in Teirm. Water fell thick and fast from the merciless skies onto those unfortunate enough to be caught outside in the unexpected storm. The herbalist's shop, which was abnormally dark even on the sunniest days due to the thick greenery-adorned windows, was even less visible in the gloom.

Angela sighed as she lit another candle, the small flame creating a pool of light in her palm before she set it down on the main bench next to several others. Business was as poor as could be expected on such a day, with no one quite game enough to brave the elements. She had been expecting a large group of sailors to come in to collect a batch of pre-ordered love potions today (maybe they did work after all, for they kept coming back – either that or it was all in their imaginations) but supposed that their plans had been altered in light of the recent weather.

Still, no matter. The herbalist had kept herself relatively busy, having used the extra time to do all the little tedious tasks she had been putting off for some time; putting labels on potion and medicine bottles, sorting through some old scrolls, trying to locate several missing instruments, and other such things had taken up most of her morning. Now at about midday, the woman was just starting to feel slightly weary.

"I must be getting old," she mused out loud. Of course, she knew that she was actually quite a bit older than her appearance let on, but sometimes it was hard even for her to remember the exact age over the years of anti-ageing herbs. Grimacing at the thought of every woman's worst fear, Angela sat down at her desk in a brief moment of respite, a cup of tea cradled in her hands. For a little while she just sat there, listening idly to the roaring rain outside and not thinking about anything in particular.

A loud croak interrupted her musings and she looked over at the glass container on the end of her workbench. It was littered with a carpet of leaves and twigs, a few dead bugs, a small container of water, and one large frog.

"Good afternoon Master Gobanob," Angela said with a smile, bowing her head cordially. "I trust that your day has been mildly more interesting than mine?"

Gobanob stared at her with baleful eyes but did not reply. He was a very big frog, with thick, stubby legs, covered in a dry, bumpy brown hide and didn't look much like a frog at all. But Angela knew that he was and would one day prove it to everyone who insisted on calling him a toad.

Sighing, the herbalist drained the rest of her tea and stood up and, with one more resentful look at the rain-drenched windows, decided that it was probably time that she found that wand she'd recently misplaced. It had happened once before, and the poor boy who had come into the shop with his mother had gotten a nasty shock after coming across it by accident. Angela hadn't seen that woman since, so decided that it might be a good idea not to repeat the experience.

However, the second she stood up, an icy jolt suddenly shot through her, causing the woman to cry out in shock. The teacup fell to the ground and shattered as Angela gripped the bench, her eyes squeezed tightly shut at what felt like thousands of icicles ripped through her body.

While the pain continued to ravage her consciousness, she was suddenly bombarded by what seemed like thousands of images that flew past her mind's eye one after the other with such a speed that it was hard to make sense of them. However, a couple of scenes jumped out at her with painful clarity; a forest-covered mountain range, stormy skies that matched the one outside, three figures in a clearing. One of the figures looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't focus her mind long enough to remember. It was all too much, she was going to pass out any second . . .

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the icy pain vanished, leaving Angela slumped weakly against her bench, gasping for breath. For a few moments she didn't move, but tried to patch together her scrambled thoughts and half-scared that it – whatever it was - would come back.

_It won't_.

In her preoccupied state, Angela nearly jumped out of her skin as the voice cut suddenly through the silence of her mind. Turning her head abruptly to look for the source of it, the herbalist instead found a scruffy cat sitting on the bench beside Gobanob, fixing her with a gleaming red gaze.

_Solembum_, she breathed, passing a shaking hand over her forehead. _What was that?_

The werecat blinked at her. _That_, he said, _was a sign of disruption. An imbalance has been created in the natural order of the world._

The frowned at him, then collapsed back into her chair. _And what does that mean?_

Solembum gave her a somewhat disdainful look. _Think, woman!_ He snapped. _An imbalance – it means that time has been tampered with! Events that aren't supposed to happen have come about. The outcome of this could be disastrous!_

She stared at him, her mind only able to take in one thing at a time. _Time? Is that even possible?_

_Well obviously._ The werecat started to wash himself. _It just happened, didn't it?_

Angela could feel a migraine start to creep into her skull. Pity her headache medicine was on the list of have-to-find things. Heaving a great sigh, she looked up at Solembum. _Can we do anything about this?_

_No. Not without causing further damage._

_So we just sit here and wait for things to play out?_ She couldn't keep the skepticism out of her mind-voice.

_Pretty much. For the record._ He stopped licking his paw to look at her. _I don't think it will be happening again._ With that, he jumped off the table and trotted towards the preparation room, where he often slept when staying with her.

Angela watched him leave, then put her head in her hands. Why must everything that damn creature say be so cryptic? Would it really hurt to give her a straight answer for once?

Her thoughts then turned to the icy pain she had felt in her head. She shivered. Time was a subject that she had only come across once or twice, in some of her older scrolls that had come into her possession over the years. Although it had seemed rather fantastic to her at the time, she knew better than to doubt Solembum's judgment. _Who would be arrogant – not to mention stupid – enough to tamper with something as immense as time?_ she thought to herself.

Suddenly, an image came to her. She recognized it as one of the figures that had been part of the visions she had somehow been bombarded with. Her eyes widened as the face came back to her. Of course - who else could it have been?

"Vralkin," she growled out loud.

Gobanon croaked loudly at the anger in the normally placid herbalist's voice.


	5. Revelations: Part 1

**Chapter Five: A Change in Plans**

_**Two years later . . .**_

The thief collapsed to his knees as a wave of dizziness engulfed him. He wasn't sure if it was due to the adrenaline that pumped through his veins, the strong smell of incense that still hung on his tattered black cloak, or the fact that he had just journeyed over a thousand leagues in the blink of an eye.

After catching his breath, he slowly rose to his feet and looked around warily. He was in a forest, that much was clear, and from the icy breeze that stung his cheek, it was probably up in the mountains somewhere. A quick look up at the full moon that was just visible through the dark foliage overhead told him that it was around midnight. And just ahead, settled in a small forest glade, was a herd of deer lost in slumber.

All according to plan.

The thief allowed himself a brief smirk as he looked down at the trinket in his hands. It was a small pendant, rather plain looking, in the shape of a metal disc attached to a long chain. Its edges were stained with rust and he honestly couldn't imagine why anyone, even the shady-looking old man who'd given it to him, would want to wear it in the first place. However, it wasn't long after receiving the pendant that the thief realised its worth was most definitely not measured by its attractiveness.

Still smiling slightly, he slipped the chain around his neck and, after making sure that the pendant itself was safely concealed by his clothing, the thief crept closer to the deer. They paid no mind to him; this particular job was designed for no one but the most silent, stealthy, and cunning of people, and although this was his first major job, he fitted quite perfectly into each category.

After a brief moment of thought, he chose a large tree that was a few yards away from the glade, but close enough so that he could keep a sharp eye on the area. The thief then scuttled deftly up the trunk, settling himself on a branch somewhere in the middle. His cargo, a single bag that was strapped tightly to his shoulder, banged uncomfortably against his hip, but he ignored it; the contents of this bag, he knew, were worth much more than his life, and putting up with their slightly hindering weight was the least of his responsibilities.

His employer, the one who had given him both the pendant and the job, had been somewhat scarce on the details: collect first prize, transport to forest, watch deer, wait for signal. The thief had accomplished the first three instructions and was now waiting for the signal – whatever that may be. But he was used to working with a minimum of information, and could always improvise if needed.

His time in the tree lasted for about three minutes, though it felt much longer. To amuse himself he watched one of the deer, a small doe with a bad foreleg, twitch in her sleep. No doubt she wouldn't last much longer and be picked off by a bear or wolf in the near future. The thief wondered if she was dreaming about a time when her leg had been whole and she could run just as fast and free as her herd . . .

A sudden explosion ripped through the air. Startled, the thief flung an arm to his face as fierce wind, twigs, and leaves flew over him. The old, somewhat tattered bag which held his prize stirred and knocked against his side. Dimly, he heard the deer bolt and cautiously lowered his arm to peer at the place where they had been lying moments before.

The glade now resembled a crater in the ground, with a few of the trees surrounding it scorched and bare. He winced slightly at the sight of them, glad that he had chosen one a little further back. That, he presumed, was the signal.

He recovered quickly from the shock of the blast and looked around the area. His heart leapt. There, in plain sight, tendrils of mist curling around it, was the other prize. It was different in colour, but otherwise identical to the one in his bag; and it was almost within his reach.

Taking a deep breath, he cautiously lowered himself to the ground. He waited a moment until the crippled doe, hindered because of her leg, ran past his tree in the direction of her herd, before taking a few steps towards the crater.

An arrow suddenly hissed through the air and embedded itself in the wood just centimetres from his head. Bewildered, he ducked down out of reflex and pulled out the gnarled dagger than also hung at his hip. Who could have seen him? Who was _out_ here to see him? He'd thought the place was deserted.

The thief looked around, trying to see his assailant through the darkness. Indistinct voices reached his ears, growing louder by the second, and he immediately tensed up before scurrying back up the tree to a better vantage point.

"What _was_ that?"  
"I don't know, but it made me lose that deer!"

"Don't go after it! It's probably dangerous."

The thief blinked and relaxed slightly. Clearly, the arrow had been meant for the doe, not him. However, his prize was still down there and he was stuck up in the tree. Could he perhaps make a dash for it before the people got to it?

"Hey, what's that?"

Too late. The thief watched with increasing dismay as two figures entered the desecrated glade. They were both male, he could tell, and each had a bow in hand. The slightly shorter one's bow was strung, and he had presumably let loose the arrow. He had spotted the prize first and now approached it with mixed feelings of caution and curiosity written across his youthful features. The other lingered back, looking around the area as though expecting the cause of the explosion to jump out from the shadows.

"Hey Murtagh, come look at this," the younger one said, having finally mustered up the courage to touch the prize. The thief watched as his hands moved over its smooth surface before holding it in a firm grip and lifting it off the charred ground. "What do you think it is?"

"Something dangerous, no doubt," his companion replied curtly. However, he looked curious in spite of himself and reluctantly moved closer. When he caught sight of the object in the other boy's hands, however, his eyes widened and he took a step back. "Put it back!" he hissed.

The boy looked up, confused. "What?"

"Seriously Eragon, put it back," Murtagh repeated, looking around once more. "It – looks dangerous."

_Yes, that's right, dangerous_, the thief thought desperately. _Put it back!_

Now Eragon looked plain incredulous. "How could it be dangerous? It's just a stone. Maybe we could sell it, or exchange it for meat or something."

Exchange the prize for _meat_?! The thief couldn't believe he was hearing this. He himself wasn't even close to understanding the treasure's full wealth or purpose, but he knew that, with what he went through to get the other one, it was worth much more than some poor farm boy's winter nourishment.

While the two boys bickered and he attempted to figure out a way around this new hitch in the plan, the thief's foot, which had been resting precariously on a smooth part of the trunk, suddenly slipped. Startled, his hold on the branch faltered and he tipped sideways, causing the bag at his hip to sway dangerously. Suddenly, the worn strap on his shoulder, finally done in by all the pressure it had endured, finally snapped. His heart leapt with panic and he only just had time to grab the bag as it fell. Unfortunately, he'd grabbed the bottom of it, and he watched with a kind of horror as his first prize slipped out of the open flap and fell to the ground.

Both boys stopped their argument and looked up immediately. Murtagh frowned and strung his bow before slowly approaching the tree, Eragon not far behind. The thief had no choice but to stay concealed within the dark foliage and watch as the older boy came closer and closer to the prize. _No, no, no, no, no . . ._ his mind chanted with increasing panic, but he forced himself to stay silent.

Murtagh found the prize first, but didn't touch it. Instead, his head snapped up to look up at the tree, sharp eyes peering through the branches. Thankfully for the thief, it was dark, and he melted easily into the shadows.

"Hey look, it's another one. That one must be yours," Eragon piped up from behind.

His companion shot him a scowl. "It's not _mine_, just like that one's not _yours_," he insisted.

The younger boy gave an exasperated sigh. "What are you so scared of?"

Murtagh hesitated, and though his face gave nothing away, the thief could tell there was something he wasn't telling his companion. "Nothing, it's just . . ."

"So let's take them back to the village!"

"They'll slow us down!"

"So? If we carry one each . . ."

"I'm not carrying that thing!" he snapped, though it was clear Eragon wasn't going to give up lightly.

_Okay_, the thief thought, _Time to improvise_. He could always kill them – in fact, the temptation to jump on Murtagh from the tree with his dagger was almost irresistible. However, his employer had been quite clear; get the prizes, do it without being seen, with no blood shed. He had already made too many mistakes tonight without disobeying a direct order.

But whet else could he do?

"Look, I just don't think it would be a good idea." Murtagh was starting to sound as desperate as the thief was feeling. Eragon, however, was having none of it.

"Murtagh, you know how scarce food is these days. I mean, none of us have been able to catch a single thing since setting out, and you know that we're two of Carvahall's best huntsmen."

_Modest, aren't you?_

Murtagh bit his lip and Eragon continued. "Face it, we need money. When the traders get here were can ask them how much these stones would be worth. I reckon it would be quite a lot, don't you?"

"Worth our lives?" Murtagh muttered, but Eragon didn't seem to hear him, instead reciting the names of several traders whom he knew specialised in precious relics.

_I don't have to kill them – maybe I could just knock them out? But then they'd see me and that can't happen either . . ._

Eragon sighed and looked at his companion appealingly. "Look, why don't we at least take it home and ask what Roran's opinion is. If he thinks we should get rid of them, then I'm outnumbered. Alright?"

Murtagh still looked deeply reluctant, but the thief could see his resistance crumbling, and wondered if he was always this much of a pushover, or just when it came to Eragon.

Finally, he sighed and said, "Fine. But don't ask me for anything else for the rest of the year."

Eragon smiled triumphantly. "Deal."

Murtagh gave one more resentful look at the prize, still lying at the base of the tree, before sighing and bending down to pick it up. He held it for a brief moment, examining it with doubtful eyes, then carefully tucked it into his pack. Eragon did the same, looking satisfied in contrast to his companion's clear unhappiness, then led the way out of the glade. Murtagh took one last glance at the scorched area, before disappearing into the surrounding forest.

Up in the tree, the thief, waited helplessly with burning eyes until they were out of sight, before banging his head soundly on the trunk in self-condemnation.

_That did n__ot go well . . ._

**Okay, I know what you're all thinking. Enough mysteries, we want answers! I promise you they will come in**** time, please just be patient. This chapter was hard for me to write because I had to be original and stick to the plot at the same time. Please tell me if you think the structure is a little off or the new twist is unbelievable. The plot is really starting to pick up now, and next chapter we will finally get to the village and fill in some of the blanks. Thank you once again for all your supportive reviews. ******


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